Charming Goldfish
by his-little-troll
Summary: Sherlock discovers something amiss in the forests. Fairy Tale AU, (Sherlolly). Prompt-fill.


**Charming Goldfish**

Sherlock ran, hopping shrubbery and dodging arrows with practiced ease. This new guard was persistent. He'd never been followed this far before. Luckily, he had excellent navigational skills or else he'd be lost. He'd have to come up with an escape maneuver or Mycroft would get a good description of the 'thief' and know it was his own brother. Of course, could a prince really steal what was legally his?

Of course not.

He was just about to retaliate to the snarled insults when he saw it. An entrance, hidden among the moss covered stone. He ducked behind the loose rock, slipping between the crack that was just wide enough for him to scoot through, but short enough to force him to stoop. Hooves pounded the ground as the guard passed him.

He could have turned around and continued on his way to the Kingdom. He could have dropped off his goods at the Pig's Head, zipped up to dinner, and no one would have been wiser for it. He'd probably have avoided a lecture as well.

But this had piqued his interest. Who had been here, disturbing the fresh moss, crushing wet grass, utilizing this little slice from the scenery? And where did it lead?

The answer was a tower, but it was not a usual tower in any way. No matter how many times he circled the singular, weed covered pillar he found no door. There was no ladder and only a single window. What did one keep in a tower with no door? Hours of observation later, he determined he had no hope of solving this mystery unless he found a way inside.

There was no way to test the stability of the structure. Judging by the amount of foliage covering the stone it was quite old. Trying to break a hole could bring the whole building toppling over. Most of the vines were thin and fragile, no use for climbing. The stones were uneven, some jutting out enough to easily accommodate his grip.

So he climbed. Up and up, hands bleeding before he finally reached the window, knees and forearms raw, shoes tattered. Curiosity drove him all the way to the sill. With a single gust of strength he pulled himself into the shadowed room, rolling over onto a hard floor.

He'd expected it to be empty. No one could possibly live here. What on earth would they do with no way to leave for food and water? So when he was struck with the smell of vanilla and spices it was with great surprise that he opened his eyes.

"Well, can't say I ever expected a beggar to make his way up here. I assure you, it's hardly worth your life to rest your head here. I suggest you find a way back down. She'll be back any minute now."

"Who?" His hands pulsed with pain at his sides.

"Mum."

He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Her voice was soft, yet sharp. She sounded young. Joints and muscles ached as he sat up. Everything was clean. Clean as the kitchens back home.

"Where am I?"

"It's never really called anything. I mean, I just call it prison, but Mum's not too pleased with the idea."

He finally saw the speaker, brown eyes peeking from a support beam. Brown eyes and lots and lots of brown hair. A cot hung in the corner, a washbasin still full in the center of the room. Where'd she get the water? He noted the steam rising, and the shy way she tucked herself behind the beam. Ah. He'd interrupted.

"How did you get the bath water?"

"Who are you?"

"Answer mine, I'll answer yours." They locked eyes, and he saw stubbornness. She really had no idea who he was.

"There's a well on the bottom floor. I pull the buckets up there." She pointed, the curtain of her hair pushed aside to reveal a rather thin body. He followed her finger and saw the opening, the pulley, and the bucket all by the narrow staircase. She was silent for a moment, watching him. "What's your name? You said you'd tell me."

"Sherlock." He scrambled to his feet, hand outstretched. "And I'm not a beggar."

She cringed away from his hand, receding further into shadow. "Then what are you? You're all dirty."

"Yes, well." He looked down to find his shirt and pants ripped and stained in browns and greens from his climb. He certainly didn't look like a nobleman. "I'm a thief."

A version of the truth was easier than a lie. And he'd probably be here a good while judging by the thrum of pain in his palms. No fear or anger fired behind her eyes or scrunched up her face in righteous condemnation. He was quite used to this reaction from those who didn't recognize him.  
"A thief? Are there others like you?" She shuffled forward, finally coming out from behind her hiding place. "I've never seen… someone quite so sharp before."

There wasn't much area between them. Before he had time to react to the pale shine of her exposed hip and the soft rise of her breasts, she was running a finger down his jawline. She didn't look interested in him in _that _way. The deep furrow of her brow, the light tilt of her lips into a frown, the way her touch grazed over his broad shoulders all spoke to a more academic exploration.

"Other thieves? Someone's had a happy childhood."

Only, he regrets the joke almost immediately. The sad light in her eyes says otherwise. The retraction of her touch speaks of disciplines. It doesn't take him long to note other signs of a less than pleasant existence. Long, long hair in knots, much too heavy to be comfortable, wound around the floor. Despite spotless shelves and polished floors, he could see neglect written on the peeling wallpapers. It whispered at him from the thin blanket covering her 'bed', the cracked mirror on her dresser.

Perhaps where it was most obvious was in the poking ribs from her abdomen. Or the yellow smear of a bruise on her shoulder. Or the crooked way her nose sat on her face. For a moment pity flared to life in his chest, an emotion he was not entirely familiar with.

Then she lifted her chin and gave him a level stare. Her cheeks were high, her wild hair like a halo. The thin line of her lips was determined. When she spoke, it was with a voice of power and strength. She was not broken. Abused, but not defeated.

"You have to hide."

He'd not expected that. There was nowhere to hide. "Why?"

"She's coming. The sun's going down. She always comes at sundown."

Suddenly she was on him, pushing him towards the stairs with a ferocity he'd have never guessed such gangly limbs could possess. She pushed him towards the first few steps, motioned down, and flopped back into the water.

He ignored the desire to peek beyond the cut out in the floor, his head only barely below the line of visibility. He heard her step back out of the water, watched her hair slither away from the edge of the room. Something thunked, and several grunts and huffs later, steps clacked against the floor.

"Hello, sweet. Get dressed. I didn't raise a whore." The voice was too rough and old to belong to the mystery woman.

"Yes, mum."

She couldn't possibly understand the severity of that insult. Her previous behavior made it clear she was unaccustomed to visitors. By the characteristics she'd been particular interested in—his jaw, the difference in shape, the lack of certain anatomy—she'd specifically never seen a man. So how then did her voice soften? Why then did he hear the shrinking of the woman who had just ordered him to hide?

"Your bath water is cold, but your hands are not wrinkled. What have you been doing, wasting our water?"

"I was taking a bath, but then I got distracted. I found a raven in my window."  
"Birds? You are a silly girl." Something so simple sneered in anger sounded cruel.

He sat still, listening. A chair scraped, a clink and clunk dulled by wood. Silence lulled him into dangerous security. What was he going to do when the woman started down the stairs? He hadn't missed the singularity of every scrappy piece of furniture. This wasn't the older woman's room. Which meant she lived somewhere further down. Unless he was lucky, and she didn't live here at all. An unlikely scenario.

"So, Mum. Can I leave soon?"

"Every night, dear? Must we really do this every night?" The voice was croaky, exasperated. "I've told you, you're not ready."

"When will I be ready? I want to find out where the birds come from, and who makes the bread you bring, and who writes the books I read."

"You may never be ready, child."

He's starting to understand, slowly. She's not just talking to the old woman here. She's talking to him. She's asking him for help. She's never left this tower, and she's asking him to help her.  
He doesn't know how to do that. Right now, he doesn't even know how he's going to get out of here before he's discovered.

Usually, he wouldn't worry about such things but he has a sack full of gold tied to his waist and no proof of who he is. The woman would be more likely to kill him than allow him to offer an explanation. His blood runs cold as he hears footsteps approaching. Slow as they are, they're not nearly slow enough for him to get away in time. With bated breath he waits for withered eyes to fall on his less than preferable hiding spot.

"Mum, are you leaving already?"

"Mummy's back hurts. She needs a lie down."

"Right now? I want to talk." There's a break in the footsteps, just at the edge of his visual field. He slides down the stairs, carefully testing each plank for creaks and weakness.

A conversation ebbs away from his ears, his concentration too focused on his progress to absorb what they said. Climbing up the tower had been hard, but this unknown entity was a strange kind of terrifying. He wasn't truly afraid for himself. He'd long moved beyond his own mortality.

He'd seen innocence in those sharp brown eyes. Innocence and fear and a curiosity that rivaled his own pass over that pointed, soft face. It intrigued him. She was fascinating, in all of her darkness.

Before he realized it he found himself on the bottom floor. The walls were damp. Green slime slicked the walls, the air thick with the smell of musk and mold. She had said this was where the water came from. He could not understand how the damp and rot did not bring the building down. By his estimation, the amount of damage to this building's interior caused by water damage and the exterior by foliage should have brought this building down at least seven years ago.

He was presented with another problem beyond structural instability. No line of a light or thinned stone allowed for a door. No crack or tunnel or secret passage allowed him passage away from here. There was only one way out and it involved going back up those stairs and practically jumping to his death.

He was beginning to really understand why she was stuck here.

"Come with me." The whisper surprised him, though he didn't show it. Instead he turned his coldest stare to the girl.

"You've tricked me."

She looked different in the dark. Something bright glistened on her skin, lit her brown eyes, shined in the shifting strands of her hair. A dull glow lit the way back up to her room, emitted from some hidden source on her person. He did not miss the hesitation as they passed the snoring hag.

The woman's face was younger than he'd expected, though still lined with wrinkles and damage. Dark hair curled against pillows, a full figure sunk into a lush mattress. It seemed his captor's captor lived in luxury while she led him back to her squalor with a night gown far too small for her long limbs and soft curves. By the time they'd reached the top of the stairs he'd devised a series of questions. He didn't get the chance to ask.

"My name is Molly. When you return tomorrow, do not show up before the sun is high in the sky. Do not leave before the sun has a quarter to its end. You must never let her see you." The demand was given with conviction, but not force. He could deny her if he wanted.

"A bit presumptuous, aren't you? Who said I would come back. Clearly, you've gotten yourself into a situation here. Damsels in distress is not really my area."

"You will not return for my distress. You will return because you want to know why I am here." Large eyes gleam at him, unblinking. That unfamiliar light draws him in, a question niggling in his mind. "You will return because you want to know what I am."

"Obviously you are—" She stopped him with a kiss. It was chaste. It was naïve. It was simple. It took his breath away. Images flashed behind his eyelids. A stream. Trees in a forest. Green, bright and glaring, left an imprint in his mind. "You are not a woman."

His voice is too breathless. His lips still tingle. Is she a nymph? Is this a trap? Has she lured him here?

"Do not worry. I will not harm or ensnare you. I will let you go now, but when you return tomorrow… Bring bread, please. I have never tasted fresh bread."

"Bread is cooked in the morning. It will hardly be fresh at midday."

"Isn't all bread fresh for a Prince?" Once again those eyes see too much.

"I'm a thief."

"A thief and a prince." Another piercing stare before she turns her back to him. In quick, circular motions she gathers her hair. The knots and tangles do not catch as they slide over the knotted wood floors. By the time she's done she has at least twenty feet of brown wound around her arm like rope. "You'll climb down this, until you reach the ground. When you do, run. Do not look back. Whatever you do, do not look back."

He doesn't have time to speak. She flings her hair over a hook, drops the mass of brown over the edge and looks at him expectantly. "Go now. You are wasting time."

He sees it, the glow that has been lurking behind that chocolate brown since he first saw her in the dark. Maybe that is why he doesn't argue. Maybe that is why he doesn't question the strength it takes to support him the entire descent. It is certainly not because of the kiss seared in his mind, or the question of all that water and green, or the tingle of sensation that still ghosted over his lips. It is certainly not any of that which chases him all the way back into his kingdom.

Mycroft is waiting for him. He doesn't have the time to hide his tattered peasant's clothes or to school his expression into his unaffected coolness. The insufferable cane is back, beak like nose pointed upward even as beady eyes glared him down.

"So, what embarrassment have you caused tonight, brother dear?"

The words are like ice water dowsed over his head. It clears the glittering woman away, and the silliness of his adventure. Of course he wouldn't go back to the tower. Knowing him, he'd wake up in the morning and realize this had all been an opiate induced dream. Or that he'd been knocked out on one of his runs again. Or that he'd finally lost it, and Mycroft was right all along and he was mad.

"Start any wars this time, Mikey?"

Satisfaction swept through him at his brother's reddened cheeks and deepened scowl. He'd never quite gotten over the last skirmish he'd initiated. Of course, the fact that it was over one of Sherlock's jobs was a conveniently ignored point. It helped greatly that Mycroft couldn't prove Sherlock had stolen any precious jewelry collection. Instead they could only glare at each other in mutual distaste.

"I had one of my men follow you today. He said he lost you at Bart's." His brother seemed to find something particularly interesting about his nails.

"Well, that can hardly be my fault. Train your dogs better." This was leading somewhere.

"You have to realize that you'll be called on to attend some of these meetings. People expect a certain keeping of appearances from you, Sherlock."

"Of course they do, Mikey. I do like to disappoint their expectations."

"I'd say you'd rather exceeded Father's. I had to head off the Lestrade to ensure he didn't catch you slipping into the collector's pockets."

"Oh, I'm sure that's why you headed off Lestrade. Quite a strapping Lead of Guard, isn't he?"

"Quiet, brother." The indignant red faded to pale worry at the joke. "You don't realize the depth of your accusations."

"Don't fret. I won't reveal your shenanigans. Heaven forbid father try to hand me the throne."

"Yes. A disastrous idea." Mycroft gave pause before turning his back. Sherlock took the opportunity to strip off his tattered and blood soaked shirt. The next question nearly made him choke on his own breath. "I hear you've found quite an interesting development. A goldfish, as we say."

"As who says?" Panic cracked his voice, a curse from his conscience.

"Oh, Sherlock. You think you can hide these things from me?" That scepter clacked against the marble floor, an aggravating sound that flustered suddenly thin nerves.

"I'm not hiding anything."

"Of course you are." Mycroft stood, reminding him that his brother was at least a foot taller than him. "I don't send you out there to get killed, Sherlock. And I certainly don't send you out there to collect goldfish."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't go back. Not everything is as it seems." With his last cryptic word on the subject, Prince Mycroft Holmes exited with a flourish.

That night, Sherlock couldn't sleep. A flash of brown, a gleam of golden light, the press of lips against his, all twisted round and round in his mind, keeping him awake. When he finally fell into restless dreams, he drowned in endless streams and rivers and green that blurred his vision and stifled his breath. He woke early in the morning, his covers soaked in sweat.

The minute his eyes opened to the world he'd made up his mind.

He was going back.

He'd take her bread.

And he'd ask her why he saw water when she kissed him. He'd ask her why she glowed at night. He'd ask her why she was kept in a tower without doors. He wouldn't kiss her again. Certainly not. Of course, his other duties would have to be put on hold until after he left.

In the hours before he found her tower again, he paced his room a dozen times. He'd changed twice, once from his Prince's day clothes and again out of a less-posh but still noble outfit that had been gifted to him. Instead, he settled for a simple vest and britches. At least if he had to climb again, he'd have something a bit thicker to protect his skin.

He wondered if he'd find her hair cascading out her window again. He wondered if her eyes would flash at him, glinting in the shadows. He wondered if she'd answer all his questions. He wondered if maybe this was a trick.

He was not entirely surprised when he found her tower, looking just as empty and just as dilapidated as before. He circled it twice before looking up at the window. She watched him, her expression indiscernible from his position on the ground. He watched her connect her hair to the hook, before it came rippling down like melted bronze and gold. Its wispy ends brushed against the grass. He did not hesitate.

Gulping for breath didn't keep his lungs from feeling like they were going to explode by the time he reached the top. He'd always prided himself on being fit, but his hold kept slipping and the rocks dug into his feet. He'd stumbled more than once.

"I'm glad to see you made it." She doesn't turn to him as she pulls her hair back in, eyes set intently on the field separating her tower from the rock wall that separated her from the world. "Did you bring the bread?"

He grimaced, but pulled the crushed loaf from the bag on his belt. He'd had to hide it in chunks, or else they'd have questioned him through town. She isn't the least bothered by its state. Instead, she shoves a bite into her mouth, and then another. He smiles, unable to hide his amusement, as she wolfs down the entire loaf. His smile fades away as he remembers the way her ribs poke out beneath her too small dress. Right. Starvation was a lot less humorous.

"Was it everything you thought it would be?"

Her face is a little less dull when she looks back at him. Pointed lips curve up into a smile, the upturn of her nose dusted with freckles he hadn't noticed in yesterday's shadows.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I can only answer one question a day. Unfortunately, you've just used yours on asking me about bread."

"Hm." He narrows his eyes at her, watching the blush spread across her cheeks at his scrutiny. "I don't need answers. I can deduce."

"Is that part of being a thief?" She averts her gaze, moves over to her cot and sits on the scarce mattress. He's surprised by how easily the thin netting supports her. Even with starvation, he'd expected the spidery threads to disintegrate at her touch.

"Yes. You have to know who you can and can't pick, you know." A thought occurs that draws a smile across his lips once more. "If I can only ask one question, so can you. You've wasted one as well, Miss Molly."

"That's not fair. You said you didn't need me to answer. I can't deduce, as you say. I've never seen another…" The confession drops off.

"I realized yesterday, after your near molestation of my upper half, that you'd at least never seen a male." He tilts his head at her, perching himself against one of the two chairs in her room. "How'd you know I wouldn't take advantage of you? I'm sure your Mum has told you all kind of horrific stories."

This time there is no blush, or pretty fluttering of her lashes. She matches his coldness. She doesn't answer his question, but she does.

"You assume you can handle yourself." He remembers something he heard while he'd hid in the crevice of the stairs. "So you read books? Where are they?"

The ratty chest she drags out from under a heavy cloth is small and practically bursting with volumes. Subjects ranging from the study of stars to art to strategies of war are crammed together. Despite their worn covers and bent spines, the pages are crisp and clean. A pattern begins to form. The tower, her cot, the books. All falling apart, all held together. But she can't be. There hasn't been anyone like that in the kingdom in hundreds of years.

They spend the rest of their time together going over the volumes, discussing the merits of information within. He is surprised when she stands abruptly and begins coiling her hair over her arm.

"Bring fruit tomorrow, please. I have never had strawberries."

He doesn't tell her that strawberries are almost impossible to come across in this part of his kingdom. They will cost him, but the forceful way she says it removes the question. He'll bring her strawberries tomorrow.

She kisses him again. There are more flashes of water, the bubbling rapids broken only by laughter that has no source. Green closes in on him again, the visions over just as suddenly as they began. This time she lingers, a question that doesn't need to be voiced. He doesn't answer.

He spends the rest of his night thieving from every drunk nobleman in every tavern. He'd never realized how much easier his duties were when his targets were inebriated.

Mycroft is not there when he shows up. Of course, Lestrade isn't guarding the gates that night. He should have known his brother would be off with his own _goldfish_.

The night goes the same as the one before, and he wakes in cold sweat. The feeling of water in his lungs and water in his mouth chokes him before he realizes he's awake. It takes a bit longer for the green to fade.

He shows up earlier than he's supposed to. He sees the hag leaving, watches her clutch her cape around her shoulders. Wild eyes glare at every creaking branch and scurrying squirrel in the brush. Paranoia by the books.

She's watching for him when he breaks into the field. The climb is harder today, his muscles screaming abuse at the third day of strain.

She doesn't ask for the strawberries, and he doesn't ask if she wants them. They spend most of their hours engaging in a game of 'who's going to ask first?'

He deduces that her favorite color is yellow, because it reminds her of the sun. She speculates that he only steals from the richest noblemen, or else he'd have been caught by now. He points out that it has been several years since she'd made a new frock, and that this was due to a lack of suitable fabric. She'd guessed he had a brother, which is why he wasn't worried about getting caught. They traded stories, neither confirming nor denying the other.

He enjoyed it, and it was foreign to him. This wasn't the same kind of enjoyment he received from a successful pick, where the men jolted upright and patted down their pockets, absolutely flustered at how they'd lost so much money. This wasn't the same enjoyment he got from mocking Lestrade or Mycroft about their overtly covert relations. This was the enjoyment of another person. So when she stood and coiled her hair, the sun hovering over the horizon, he felt his heart speed for the first time.

"Why do I see water when you kiss me?" That had not been the question he'd planned to ask. He'd planned to ask why she was in a tower with no doors.

"Because I see water when I close my eyes." This answer is not particularly useful either. She moves closer, runs her hands over his vest, eyes fixed on the bob of his Adam's apple. "Why did you climb my tower?"

"It has no doors. It had to hide a treasure." Her head shoots up at this, eyes wide, breath quick.

"I am not a treasure."

"That's why I come back."

He doesn't know what makes him do it. He certainly didn't think to do it. But that didn't keep his lips from meeting hers, or his hand from curling behind her neck, or his arm from wrapping around her back. She doesn't fight him. He feels her fingers wrap around his shirt. Her body presses against his. It is his moan that breaks the spell, that forces him back.

He saw waves. He heard laughter. He smelled minerals in the earth and touched the cool stones on the riverbed. Above all that he felt the tingle of her kiss on his lips and the fire she'd left on his skin. His run down the tower is faster this time. He almost breaks the rules. He almost looks back. Something keeps him from it, and so he continues on.

He is glad he left the strawberries.

He doesn't sleep that night, but that doesn't keep the visions away. Even though his body is spent from another night thieving, and his mind is filled with secrets he was never supposed to hear, he cannot force the visions away. He spends his night surrounded by the gurgle of water and the twinkle of laughter and the press of her skin against his. He is gone before the sun rises.

She didn't make a request, he realizes. No bread and no strawberries. So he brings her chocolate. The merchant he buys it from looks surprised, but does not say anything. Wise man.

He is passing time in the town when he sees Lestrade talking with his wife, their children bawling in the corner. She's drunk again. Sherlock wonders briefly if Mycroft knows the Guard has been trying to reconcile his marriage. The Prince would probably deny sentiment if Sherlock tried to confront him about it. So he moves away from the scene without comment.

He doesn't show up early, but there is no Molly looking at him from the window. He waits until he sees her face before crossing the field. Her hair is smooth when he climbs it this time, knots and tangles gone. She is eating the strawberries he left yesterday. He does not think about the way her lips would taste now, with the juice from the fruit fresh against the red flesh. He doesn't.

They talk about the world outside the tower. She asks her question immediately. What is it like to be a prince and a thief?

He talks freely, describing to her the tedium of court and the expectations of royalty. The marks and pick pocketing make for livelier conversation, and she laughs at these stories. It's the same laugh from the visions, and he understands for the first time that she is the one he hears. By the time he finishes his stories, it is time to go.

"Why are there no doors, if you are not a treasure?"

"Because she does not agree. She wants to keep me hidden."

This is an unsatisfying answer as well. He's less bothered by the fact than he'd imagined he would be. He kisses her again, and this time she tastes like strawberries when she moans into his mouth.

He dreams of goldfish swimming in the rapids, crying and laughter and screaming and humming clashing together in a cacophony of sound. He wakes to find his bed soaked, the covers dripping onto slick marble. He steps into an inch of water. He cannot deny the evidence, but he wants to and that frightens him.

He never gave her the chocolate. So he does not get her a gift today. The thought never occurs to not go.

He does not show up early. She is waiting on him again, staring out her window. The thumping of his heart has nothing to do with the climb ahead, and he knows it. His body doesn't protest any more. He knows he's stronger for the exercise. Mycroft had mentioned it briefly, always too alert of what he shouldn't see. Sherlock had nothing to feel guilty about. He did his brother's dirty work for him, and even managed some charity. There was no reason for the smug light to Mycroft's smile.

It still crawled under his skin.

She doesn't immediately take to the chocolate he hands her. Her face wrinkles when she smells it, and she quirks an eyebrow at the dull color of it. It's not until he takes a bite of it that she grins at him and plops the rest in her mouth, coughing at the bittersweet taste coating her tongue.

They laugh, both of them standing in the light of the window. Her giggles die down and he knows what she's going to do before she's fully made the decision. He can tell by the way her lip rolls between her teeth, her eyes looking at him from thick lashes. She's shy about it, running her hand up his chest, inching closer until her knees bump his. A giggle, soft in the silence of the room, is the last sound she makes before she pulls his head down by the curls at the back of his neck.

This kiss is different from the others. It is a question, but it is also an answer. He doesn't pull away when her hand slips beneath his loose shirt, does pull away when her tongue darts against his lip. Instead, he presses her closer, his hands cupping her face. It doesn't take them long to reach her cot. He's sure it should crumble, should break under their combined weight, but it doesn't even sway.

He feels her lips against his lips. He feels her skin under his palm when he undoes the simple clasps at her back. He feels the hot burn of her fingertips dragging his shirt over his head before she buries them in his curls.

But he also feels water in his breath. Green beats against his eyelids, even as she fumbles with his ties. Laughter, crying, screaming, humming, sounds of a life inside another life berate his ears. Every touch splits him between two worlds.

He is lost in it. Her grip on him sears him, strangling out a gasp against her neck. Something drips against his skin and he could swear it is raining. He slips her dress down her shoulder, revealing small breasts and pale shoulders. He sucks a pert nipple, sends her back arching beneath him as he slips his hand between her thighs. He knows she's not experienced. He has the thought that maybe this is wrong, but when he pulls away she stares back at him not with naiveté but with acknowledgment. It only when she nods that he continues.

He spends the afternoon drowning. When he finally comes up for air, they are both breathless. Her covers are sopping, the floor beneath them in puddles. He expects fear, or betrayal. This was not natural. She could have tricked him. She could have cast a spell or ensnared him with magic. He knew she hadn't as she traced circles on his chest.

He left as the sun touched the land, unable to hurry despite the time. They kissed as he hung from her window. He forced himself not to look back.

Mycroft waits for him at home, sparing only contempt at Sherlock's state.

"I see you've gone swimming with the goldfish, then."

"Why do you keep calling her that?" He bites it off more harshly than he'd intended.  
"Brother dear, isn't it obvious?" The flamboyant irritant went to move away, but he'd had enough. Without thinking, he twisted his brother's arm, shoving him against a wall.

"Why goldfish?"

"You would do well to remember you are a thief and a traitor, brother mine."

The accusation scalded. "I do all my betraying on your order, Mikey."

"I do wish you wouldn't call me that."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock barely restrains his sarcastic laugh. "Why do you call her goldfish?"

"Stop stealing from my men, and I'll tell you."

"Mycroft, your men never miss that money. They get to eat even if they're missing 15 pieces or not. That money keeps people off the streets. And those people I'm helping are where you get a lot of your information."

"Oh yes, your peasant network. Don't remind me of your ridiculous schemes."

"Oh yes, Sherlock." He knew he sounded like a child mocking his brother, but this was not a petty game. This was Molly. "Why a goldfish?"

"Your word, Sherlock. Or you will never know."

He couldn't. People depended on him. He couldn't. He would have to solve this mystery for himself. "I don't need you."

"Ah, well. It would seem we are on mutual ground then. From this point forward, if you work against my men, you work against the crown. Do you understand Sherlock?"

"You win, brother." His trousers squelched as he walked away, but the embarrassing state he was in didn't cool his anger. "You seem to have finally let go of all things human. I'll be sure to let Lestrade's wife know that their marriage can be saved after all."

His brothers sputtering did not sooth him.

He did not sleep that night, plagued by her sighs and her moans and his drowning. He slipped into breakfast in the morning, clothes damp and hair dripping and skin clammy. Mycroft's concerned glances were not welcome. Neither was Lestrade's tailing him for the day.

Neither of the two made a move until he moved towards the forest. They already knew he went. What use was there in hiding?

Being shoved into an alley was not what he'd expected from their following. The look of guilt on their faces made his stomach sink. They had done something. Lestrade's fidgeting said that it was something bad, something the man of moral fiber felt uncomfortable with. His brother's steeled nerves spoke the opposite. A necessary evil.

"What is it?" Grayson? Or was it Graham? His brother's lover held his arms down, refusing to meet his eyes. "What did you do to her?"

"It's for the best. Really, it is. She's only bad for you."

"I think I can decide that."

"No, you can't." Mycroft finally spoke. Sherlock noted he looked away while talking. So both felt at least a minute guilt for this. "She was a siren, of a type."

"A siren?" He scoffed. Sirens had been driven out decades ago. "I've met her, and she certainly is no siren."

"Well, she would appear not, of course. I had her placed there when she was just a child. Her kind have proven useful on several accounts, but I never expected you to find her. That particular siren, in fact, is one I had specifically hoped to keep from you."

"Why on earth would you imprison her?" Water dripped from the wall behind him. It wasn't raining. His stomach sank. "Why not just kick her out like the rest?"

"We've managed to successfully weaponize a select few of the Siren subspecies. The more demure, stream and river inhabiting kinds. They're more nymphs, really. Their magic is essentially the same."

"She's not a nymph. Have you actually seen her, Mycroft?"

"What did she do? Make you feel special? Tell you that you're brilliant?"

"No!" He sounds too defensive, but it's the truth. And he realizes that's what started all this. She didn't treat him like anything. She treated him like he was a stranger she had met and enjoyed. Mycroft reads it off of him easily, and he wants to fight, brawl, wrestle the two men away from him but he has lost strength.

"She is a Golden Nymph. And she has snared you."

"Have you sent any others to her?"

"We've never controlled her enough. She's a wild one, absolutely ferocious. She's obviously realized you would be easier to charm than to fight and so she is going to use you to take her away. Probably take her home." This time Mycroft stares straight into his eyes, expression grim. "To try would kill you. To love her, Sherlock, is to die."

Water sloshes against his ankles. Lestrade shifts his feet uncomfortably. It is him who speaks up. "It's too late, I think, Mycroft."

His brother doesn't turn away from him. "Not quite. My brother hasn't lost all his senses. He won't go to her today, will you Sherlock? Besides, it is already too late for your meeting time. The Hag will be there soon."

Sherlock reads it. Something he hadn't wanted to read, something he didn't want to see. It was the all too comfortable slack of Mycroft's shoulders when he mentioned the time. It was the all too knowing smirk twitching at his brother's lips. The step back, as if everything would be handled soon.

She was going to die. The hag was going to kill her. Because she'd been with Sherlock.

He'd have known if she was seducing him. He'd ever been seduced in his life.

He'd have known.

Lestrade let's go of him when he droops his head. He waits, acting like a kicked dog long enough to watch the men walk away. The moment they are far enough away that they will not catch him, he sprints.

He has to get there fast enough.

He has to stop it.

He has to.

He hears the moment they recognize what he's up to. Lestrade is the first one to run after him, and that fact doesn't surprise him. Lestrade has always been kind to him, even when carrying out orders. If the man thinks he's really saving Sherlock, then it's no wonder that it's his stomping behind him. No wonder, and also no problem.

Sherlock's lost both of them within minutes. He's been in the forests long enough to know them backwards and forwards. They may know where he's going, but they've probably never been there themselves. That's what he was for. Footwork.

The sun is already set by the time he bursts through the crack in the rock. There is no hair in the wind, there is no face in the window. The Hag is already here then. He will have to climb the wall.

He does so with raw hands and slipping feet. Water pours in rivers from his skin. He reaches the top with bleeding fingers. Even as he heaves himself over the sill, he can see her. She's not moving. Strands of hair are scattered around the floor, floating in puddles and swirling in ripples of rain. Her legs are covered in scales, fins like clouds billowing out in golds and whites. She shimmers like the night he met her. Even the strands of the choppy bob shine against the dull black of the floor.

Love in the stories makes people strong.

Love in the stories makes everything better.

It heals and it fixes and it moves mountains.

But this isn't powerful.

This isn't strong.

It's love.

But God, it hurts.

It hurts to reach for her, and not feel her move under his fingers. Her silence chokes him. Her stillness haunts him. She is every bit as beautiful as the day he met her, every bit as vibrant and warm. It's such a wonderful lie, and it hurts.

He kisses her, even though it's not logical.

He presses his heart to hers. He feels the Green beat against his chest. He holds her hands in his and feels the laughter leave him. He pulls her closer and feels the screaming, humming, breathing life seep from his bones. He kisses her, and feels the water pour from his lungs and fill the air between them.

He doesn't know when she starts kissing him back. He doesn't know when her arms wrap around his torso, or when his curl into her hair. He doesn't know when she pulls against him. He can't breathe, can't think, can't feel beyond her.

There is a tower, somewhere, without doors. It crumbled and fell and nothing from the wreckage could be recovered. The rumors say was brought down by a flood, the work of angry lovers kept apart. No bodies were found that day, and Sherlock Holmes was never heard from again. Mycroft never stopped looking.

There is a forest, somewhere, filled with laughter. It is alive with sprites and nymphs and spirits. It is said that if one finds themselves drowning, that there are spirits who save. Two lovers, who found themselves together. A thief and his goldfish.


End file.
